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Bhaskar's Corner

‘Language… is a mirror of our moral imagination’

By Bhaskar Parichha

Prof. Sarbeswar Das (1925–2009): A scholar of depth, a teacher of light. Photo Provided by Bhaskar Parichha

In the intellectual history of modern Odisha, Professor Sarbeswar Das stands as one of those rare figures who seamlessly bridged scholarship, ethics, and social commitment. A luminous teacher, an erudite writer, and a quiet Gandhian, his life and work embodied the moral seriousness and intellectual curiosity that marked a generation shaped by the freedom struggle and the promise of a newly independent India.

Born in Sriramchandrapur village in the Puri district of Odisha in 1925, Sarbeswar Das grew up in a milieu where simplicity, discipline, and community values were deeply ingrained. His brilliance shone early—he topped the matriculation examination across Odisha and Bihar, a distinction that foreshadowed a lifetime of academic excellence.

His educational journey took him first to Ravenshaw College, Cuttack, the cradle of higher education in Odisha, where he absorbed the liberal spirit and rigorous intellectual training that the institution was known for. He later studied at Allahabad University, one of India’s foremost centers of learning, before proceeding to the University of Minnesota, for advanced studies in English literature.

His exposure to American academia at a time when few Indian scholars ventured abroad profoundly shaped his intellectual orientation. The years in Minnesota opened to him a new world of thought—modern literary criticism, American fiction, and the philosophy of democratic humanism—all of which left a deep imprint on his teaching and writing in later years.

On returning to India, Das joined the teaching profession, which he would pursue with remarkable dedication and grace for several decades. He served as a professor of English in some of Odisha’s most respected institutions—Christ College (Cuttack), SCS College (Puri), Khallikote College (Berhampur), and Ravenshaw College (Cuttack).

As a teacher, he was known not only for his formidable command of English but also for his clarity of expression, quiet humour, and empathetic engagement with students. He could bring Shakespeare and Emerson alive in the classroom, weaving them into the moral fabric of everyday Indian life. His pioneering initiative was the introduction of American Literature as a formal subject of study in Indian universities, long before it became fashionable to do so.

In an age when English studies in Odisha were largely confined to the British canon, he expanded its horizons by introducing writers like Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, William Faulkner, and Mark Twain to Indian classrooms.

Das believed that literature must connect with lived experience. He often told his students: “Language is not just a means of expression; it is a mirror of our moral imagination.” This conviction shaped generations of students who went on to become writers, teachers, and civil servants. Among them was the late Ramakanta Rath, later one of Odisha’s most celebrated poets, who fondly remembered Prof. Das as a teacher who inspired intellectual courage and aesthetic sensitivity.

Alongside his teaching, Prof. Das was a prolific writer and scholar. He authored around twenty-five books spanning essays, literary criticism, translations, and reflections on education and society. His writings in English and Odia reveal a mind steeped in both classical and modern traditions. Fluent in English, Odia, and Sanskrit, he was at ease quoting from the Bhagavad Gita and Hamlet in the same breath.

His essays in English reflected on the role of language in education, the cultural responsibility of intellectuals, and the need for moral clarity in modern life. He consistently argued for a vernacular humanism—a belief that English education must not estrange Indian students from their cultural roots but rather help them view their own traditions through a broader, universal lens.

As a principal, he brought administrative efficiency and human warmth to his role. His tenure is remembered for reforms that encouraged academic discipline, faculty collaboration, and student participation. He believed that education was not merely about acquiring degrees but about shaping ethical citizens.

Prof. Das’s intellectual life was inseparable from his moral and civic commitments. As a young man, he participated in the Quit India Movement, aligning himself with the Gandhian values of simplicity, non-violence, and service throughout his life.

Late in life, Prof. Das turned inward to recount his journey in his autobiography, Mo Kahani (My Story), which has since acquired the stature of a modern Odia classic. Spanning eight decades of personal and social history, it offers not only a memoir of a life well-lived but also a vivid ethnography of Odisha across the twentieth century.

In Mo Kahani, he paints rich, affectionate portraits of his family—his parents and sisters, Suruji and Hara Nani—and evokes the rhythms of village life, with its festivals, hierarchies, and hardships. His account of the great famine of 1919, passed down through family memory, is a haunting narrative of suffering and resilience.

The autobiography captures the moral universe of rural Odisha—its compassion, faith, and silent endurance—while chronicling the social changes wrought by modernity, education, and political awakening.

The book transcends personal recollection to become a social document of rare authenticity, preserving the voices and values of an era in transition. Scholars have hailed it as a valuable resource for understanding Odia social and cultural history, as well as a significant contribution to Indian autobiographical writing.

Prof. Sarbeswar Das passed away in 2009 at the age of 84, leaving behind a legacy of intellectual depth and human kindness. Those who knew him remember his calm demeanour, his Gandhian simplicity, and his unwavering belief in the power of education as a moral force. His students and colleagues regarded him not merely as a teacher but as a guide who exemplified integrity and humility in every aspect of life.

His contributions to English literary education in Odisha were transformative. By introducing American literature, promoting cross-cultural study, and insisting on a pedagogy grounded in ethical reflection, he helped modernise the study of English in the state and inspired a generation to approach literature as a bridge between worlds.

Even today, his writings—both critical and autobiographical—continue to speak to the challenges of our times: the search for meaning in education, the reconciliation of global and local cultures, and the enduring need for moral clarity in a rapidly changing world.

In the final measure, Prof. Sarbeswar Das remains not only a scholar and educator but also a moral historian of his age—one who chronicled the soul of Odisha with the sensitivity of a poet and the precision of a teacher. His Mo Kahani endures as his final lesson: that learning is not a mere accumulation of knowledge, but a lifelong practice of understanding, empathy, and truth.

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Bhaskar Parichha is a journalist and author of Cyclones in Odisha: Landfall, Wreckage and ResilienceUnbiasedNo Strings Attached: Writings on Odisha and Biju Patnaik – A Political Biography. He lives in Bhubaneswar and writes bilingually. Besides writing for newspapers, he also reviews books on various media platforms.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International

Categories
Poetry

Found in Translation: Rohini K.Mukherjee’s Odia Poems

Five poems by Rohini K.Mukherjee have been translated from Odia by Snehaprava Das

Rohini K.Mukherjee
AT THE MYSTICAL SANCHI 

An unknown voice beckons
At the early hours of the morning.
Moved by a new surprise
Buddha relapses into meditation.
A crystal dawn, cold as marble,
Is traced
On his hands and feet
And his eyes and forehead.
Some instant, invisible signal prompts him
To turn on his side and sleep.

After Buddha’s Nirvana,
Calm settles in the valley, slowly.
Thousands of
Branches and branchlets
Radiate blissful divine light.
The trees too, in a lavish growth,
Spread out everywhere --
From the earth below to the sky above --
And meditate!


THE EXECUTIONER

No one could predict
The next scene.
But in the one enacted now
The executioner has
A prominent presence.

The executioner stalks the moon,
His face hidden in the veil of clouds,
Knife in hand, a gleam of smile
On a phony face,
A sharp, keen gaze under the glasses,
Exuding the smell of
An expensive perfume.

The indistinct footfalls may
Prompt one to flick a look back
But there would be no one behind
Only clouds clad in midnight blue
Sailing in the sky.
From somewhere far floats in the music
Of a mountain stream.
Slowly, sorrow dissipates and a
Path opens up for the spring,
A wonderland of fairies.
In his unguarded moments,
The knife in the executioner’s grip
Glitters in the furtive moonlight.
Any moment that poison-coated knife
Could find the moon’s throat,
The moon knows that well.
But it forgives,
Because it also knows well
That the executioner cannot
Hide for long
And will be trapped in
The moonlit garden of tangled clouds.


THE DEATH OF A HAPPY MAN

One day, the eyes lost sleep
And all the locusts flew away,

Not one spectator had guessed
That one day
The man will sprawl out on
On the sea beach sands
Washed away by the waves
From distant lands.

The eyes lost sleep one day.
The flock of locusts flew away.

But no one could guess
The pains, the sobs
That seared that forlorn soul.

Petals drifted in piles
To make him a delicate shroud.
The smell of sandalwood came wafting
In the sea-breeze from the north.
Seagulls flocked around the body,
Unintimidated by the crowd in the beach,
Drowning the voice of
The living men there
With their loud squawks of dissent.
Ooh! What a long wished-for
Happy death
On a cool and blissful sea beach!

After the flock of locusts flew away
Carrying all the dreams back
On their wicked wings,
The eyes lost sleep!


ANKLETS OF THE NIGHT

There is still time for the nightfall.
But the air tinkles with the sound of
The anklets of the night
As if someone is retreating from
An ineffectual, moon-washed garden,
As if someone from the grave
Watching the landscape,
Or someone standing at the riverside
Hums the tune of a departed season,
Or someone hurrying aimlessly away
To escape the approaching dawn.

It is not yet night,
But the night’s anklets ring.
You are probably returning
To your shelter of old times
In search of a new hope.
Just take a look behind to see
The painting of a conflicting wind
Fluttering across the courtyard.

It is not yet night
But its anklets begin to jingle in the air.

How cool you appear in your
Evening chanting of the mantras!
How calm and steady you are
In the pure fragrance of the descending steps
As you set out on the journey
Holding your heart on your palm
Like a burning clay-lamp.
May be when you arrive there
The dawn around you would be sonorous
With the notations of Raga Bhairavi.

There is still time for the nightfall
But the night’s anklets tinkle in the air!


THEY DID NOT COME

I waited for them, but
They did not come,
I waited all this time in vain, and
Knowingly, let myself fall a victim
To the first rays of the sun.
The sun’s whiplash spurred me on
To the jungle.
It forced me to cut wood
And tie them in bundles.
The hunger of the sunset hour
Prodded me back to where
I had started.
The smell of soaked rice, and the aroma of
Onions and oil
Drifted thick in the air of my house.

The sun came in, an intruder,
Sat by me and watched.
Then it devoured all the food,
Leaving nothing,
Not even a single dried-up onion-peel.

Because they did not come,
For me the morning was
Meaningless in its futility.
I knew I was never one
In the list of their ultimate interests
When their tenure of life here ended.

The footfall of the light
Trod easy on my skin.
Days rolled on this way
In sun and light.
The sun was everywhere, all the time.
Whenever the door opened,
The sun stood there.
When the meteor came shooting down,
When words rode over
the waves of sleep to float in the air,
The treacherous sun always appeared.

And for me, there was
No hope of their coming back.

But, one day as I leapt up in a hurry
At the Sun’s summon,
I discovered the Sahara Desert
That I believed had
Remained hidden in my
School Geography book,
Lying face down all these days
Under my own hooves!

Rohini Kanta Mukherjee has authored, edited and co-edited several volumes of poetry and short stories in Odia and English. Many of his poems have been translated and published in various Indian languages , broadcast over several stations of All India Radio and Doordarshan . Some of his poems and translations have appeared in Wasafiri, Indian Literature, The Little Magazine , Purvagraha, Samasa among others. He retired as Associate Professor of English, from B.J.B Autonomous College, Bhubaneswar, Odisha.

Dr.Snehaprava Das, is a noted writer and a translator from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She has five books of poems, three of stories and thirteen collections of translated texts (from Odia to English), to her credit. 

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Editorial

Imagine… All the People…

Art by Henry Tayali(1943-1987). From Public Domain

Let us imagine a world where wars have been outlawed and there is only peace. Is that even possible outside of John Lennon’s song? While John Gray, a modern-day thinker, propounds human nature cannot change despite technological advancements, one has to only imagine how a cave dweller would have told his family flying to the moon was an impossibility. And yet, it has been proven a reality and now, we are thinking living in outer space, though currently it is only the forte of a few elitists and astronomers. Maybe, it will become an accessible reality as shown in books by Isaac Asimov, Arthur C Clarke or shows like Star Trek and Star Wars. Perhaps, it’s only dreamers or ideators pursuing unreal hopes and urges who often become the change makers, the people that make humanity move forward. In Borderless, we merely gather your dreams and present them to the world. That is why we love to celebrate writers from across all languages and cultures with translations and writings that turn current norms topsy turvy. We feature a number of such ideators in this issue.

Nazrul in his times, would have been one such ideator, which is why we carry a song by him translated by Professor Fakrul Alam. And yet before him was Tagore — this time we carry a translation of an unusual poem about happiness. From current times, we present to you a poet — perhaps the greatest Malay writer in Singapore — Isa Kamari. He has translated his longing for changes into his poems. His novels and stories express the same longing as he shares in The Lost Mantras, his self-translated poems that explore adapting old to new. We will be bringing these out over a period of time. We also have poems by Hrushikesh Mallick translated from Odia by Snehprava Das and a poignant story by Sharaf Shad translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch.

We have an evocative short play by Rhys Hughes, where gender roles are inverted in a most humorous way. It almost brings to mind Begum Rokeya’s Sultana’s Dream. Tongue-in-cheek humour in non-fiction is brought in by Devraj Singh Kalsi and Chetan Dutta Poduri. Farouk Gulsara and Meredith Stephens write in a light-hearted vein about their interactions with animal friends. G. Venkatesh brings in serious strains with his musings on sustainability. Jun A. Alindogan slips into profundities while talking of “progress” in Philippines. Young Randriamamonjisoa Sylvie Valencia gives a heartfelt account of her journey from Madagascar to Japan. Ratnottama Sengupta travels across space and time to recount her experiences in a festival recognised by UNESCO as an Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity. Suzanne Kamata brings a light touch again when she writes about robots serving in restaurants in Japan, a change that would be only fiction even in Asimov’s times, less than a hundred years ago!

Pijus Ash — are we to believe or not believe his strange, spooky encounter in Holland? And we definitely don’t have to believe what skeletons do in Hughes’ limericks, even if their antics make us laugh! Poetry brings on more spooks from Saranyan BV and frightening environmental focus on the aftermath of flooding by Snehaprava Das. We have colours of poetry from all over the world with John Valentine, John Swain, Ahmad Al-Khatat, Stephen Druce, Jyotish Chalil Gopinath, Jenny Middleton, Maria Alam, Ron Pickett, Tanjila Ontu, Jim Bellamy, Pramod Rastogi, John Grey, Laila Brahmbhatt, John Zedolik and Joseph K.Wells.

Fiction yields a fable from Naramsetti Umamaheswararao. Devraj Singh Kalsi takes us into the world of advertising and glamour and Paul Mirabile writes of a sleeper who likes to sleep on benches in parks out of choice! We also have an excerpt from Mohammed Khadeer Babu’s stories, That’s A Fire Ant Right There! Tales from Kavali , translated from Telugu by D.V. Subhashri. The other excerpt is from Swati Pal’s poetry collection, Forever Yours. Pal has in an online interview discussed bereavement and healing through poetry for her stunning poems pretty much do that.

Book reviews homes an indepth introduction by Somdatta Mandal to Banu Mushtaq’s Heart Lamp: Selected Stories, translated from Kannada by Deepa Bhasthi. We have a discussion by Meenakshi Malhotra on Contours of Him: Poems, edited and introduced by Malaysian academic, Malachi Edwin Vethamani, in which she concludes, “that if femininity is a construct, so is masculinity.” Overriding human constructs are journeys made by migrants. Rupak Shreshta has introduced us to immigrant Sangita Swechcha’s Rose’s Odyssey: Tales of Love and Loss, translated from Nepali by Jayant Sharma. Bhaskar Parichha winds up this section with his exploration of Kalpana Karunakaran’s A Woman of No Consequence: Memory, Letters and Resistance in Madras. He tells us: “A Woman of No Consequence restores dignity to what is often dismissed as ordinary. It chronicles the spiritual and intellectual evolution of a woman who sought transcendence within the rhythms of domestic life, turning the everyday into a site of resistance and renewal.” Again, by the sound of it a book that redefines the idea that housework is mundane and gives dignity to women and the task at hand.

We wind up the October issue hoping for changes that will lead to a happier existence, helping us all connect with the commonality of emotions, overriding borders that hurt humanity, other species and the Earth.

Huge thanks to our fabulous team, especially Sohana Manzoor for her inimitable artwork. We would all love to congratulate Hughes for his plays that ran houseful in Swansea. And heartfelt thanks to all our wonderful contributors, without who this issue would not have been possible, and to our readers, who make it worth our while, to write and publish.

Have a wonderful month!

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

CLICK HERE TO ACCESS THE CONTENTS FOR THE OCTOBER 2025 ISSUE

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READ THE LATEST UPDATES ON THE FIRST BORDERLESS ANTHOLOGY, MONALISA NO LONGER SMILES, BY CLICKING ON THIS LINK.

Categories
Poetry

Found in Translation: Hrushikesh Mallick’s Poems

Five poems by Hrushikesh Mallick have been translated from Odia by Snehaprava Das

AFTER THEY LEAVE     

After they leave,
The tree in the midst of a bare field
Stands forlorn.
Not a single bird,
Nor the sound of chirping anywhere
Not a leaf flutters in the breeze,
No one speaks a word
After they leave.

The world is a meaningless void
When they are not there.
Flowers bloom and wither aimlessly.
Festive seasons come and depart.
The privileged and the poor come and go
Without making an impact.
Silence reigns everywhere and around
When they are not there.

Living in a pattern,
Like, in every moth-hour
‘Chhatu bhai’ riding back
From the village market, ringing the bicycle bell,
Or, farmers sitting on a platform in the evenings
And deciding which patch of the land
Would be plowed next morning,
Like, the moon coming up routinely
At measured intervals,
And discussions centering around
How ‘Gaya-bhai’
Escaped the wrath of the village-goddess
Last night by a sheer miracle.
Routine life continues
Like rice cooking tender in the kitchen-hearth
While cow-dung cakes are put
To smoulder in the cowsheds.
The regular pattern of living
Is dull and cheerless
In their absence.
Who are they, then? Who indeed?
They are the fragrance of the paddy-buds
In the farmlands by the hillside,
They are the Siju bushes that
Grow under the eaves in the backyard,
They are the sound of the clearing of throat
That inspires courage in a fearful heart
On a dark pathway,
They are the drumbeats floating in
In gentle waves from the neighbouring village,
They are the pallbearers that twine ropes
To make a pyre;
And, after they leave life loses its meaning!

WHEN THERE IS NO GOD

Once you join your palms
sitting on the bed
while going to sleep
or, as you wake up,
worries stop disturbing
your calm.
You are assured of the presence
of someone called God
who might break your fall.
But these are the bleak days
of God’s absence,
these days the headless bodies
saunter down the streets of the night
whispering to one another.
The dogs howl in a chorus.
The sounds of sermons or devotional songs
do not float in from the mandapa,
the air throbs instead with the siren
of ambulances.
As such belief is that
the God that holds
the trident and the mace
is omnipotent.
Why does that God stand dull
and lifeless in the temple now?
Does an idol in any temple
have the power now
even to chase away the stray dogs?
Is there a God in any shrine
who can hold open
its closed doors and by some miracle
turn auspicious
all that is ominous?
In these dark days when
God is not there,
if we take a fall,
we have to get up on our own.
We have to lean on our own mettle
and our own merit
in the moments of death or survival.
In the absence of God,
we have to commit ourselves
to the service of the distressed,
to feed the hungry
and nurse the sick,
give shelter to the homeless.
It’s time we repented our indulgences
without religious extravaganza.
It’s time we stopped
pinning blind faith in
the figures of stone.

THE LONE GIRL

The lone girl has nowhere to go,
She sits alone lamenting her loss;
Once upon a time she had
a country like we all have,
it was called Syria.
Its lofty national flag
soared to the clouds.
It had a national anthem that
sparked the spirit of martyrdom
in its people!

In the evenings,
perched on the shoulders
of her babajaan,
she watched the moon
in the sky of her homeland;
heard stories from her mother
that set her eyes rolling in wonder;
that country, her homeland is now in ruins
a vast, barren expanse,
littered with severed limbs.
Its air is sick with the smell of
tons and tons of explosives
there lay piles of disfigured childhood
in pathetic abandon
to tell the tale of a country that was!

No one had ever warned the girl
that her tomorrows will be spent
in makeshift shelters under the tents,
nor did she know that
her palms would join to make begging bowl,
and there would be merchants
to trade on
the perfumed void in her.
No one predicted that she would grow up
believing in hatred instead of love!
And when she would learn to ask
the whereabouts of her parents
the whole civilized world will
keep mute.

EYES

Just as I believed that all poems
which could have been written on ‘eyes’
are already written
your ‘eyes’ flashed before me
and what an amazing lot of trees
laden with fruits and flowers
and birds, they held!
I wondered where did you flick
your deep, boundless glance
from the corridors of the hospital
like a handful of floral offerings.
The anguish that glance held
was like the lost look in the eyes of a kid
who was rudely denied a father’s lap,
like a fresh bloom shying away
from the eyes of a honeybee
or, a streak of lightning flashing
in the overcast noon-sky
like a poor man’s last hope.
Your eyes are like the lines of a poem
that unfold a new meaning
at every other reading.
Your eyes,
like a strange horizon captures
the crimson of the dawn
and the gleam of a red silk sari
in a perfect balance!
Your eyes could transform a waste land
to a paddy field in luxuriant green,
at times they are moist with muffled sobs,
or, like a spear smeared in blood, at others!
What is more beautiful --
the bright loquacity in your eyes
or the rain-washed sunshine,
the mysterious mutter in your eyes
or a village enveloped in a wispy darkness?

THE HONEYBEE DOES NOT KNOW

The son writes poems.
His mother does not know.
‘You are rotting yourself through writing,’
She complains,
‘Did you write them?’
A girl-friend, looks at him in wonder,
‘Can you swear to that?’ she asks.
The boy writes poems
The street where he lives does not know it,
Nor does the village!
His young face does not sport a beard,
Nor have the creases appeared on his forehead.
There was not that distant look
Like the faraway stars in the eyes,
How could then he be a poet?
Who would believe that?
A man who picks up a quarrel with the fisherwoman
Could recite the brajabuli,
Or, the fellow weaving clothes at the loom
Can sing lines from Tapaswini

A poet is not supposed to have a home.
He sits under the trees
Amidst the anthills.
A poet hacks off the branch he sits on.
He does not have that worldly intelligence.
A poet is not pragmatic.
He begins a line at the wrong point
And ends it at a wrong one too.
A good poet forgets the right way of chanting
The mantra that would protect him from dangers
While actually facing them.

The mother does not know that
Her son is a poet; nor does the father.
The owner of the hut where the poet takes shelter
Does not know his tenant to be a poet.
The poet’s voice does not know
It belongs to a poet.
The reflection has no idea it is the poet’s image.
The lizard exploring the shelves
Does not know the ‘Award of Padmashree’
Carefully preserved there,
Was won by the poet.
The honeybee that circles the graves
Does not know that
The lines engraved on the tomb
Were the epitaph for the poet.

Glossary:
Mandapa is a pavilion.
Brajabuli is a dialect based on Maithali that was popularised for poetry by the medieval poet Vidyapati.
Tapaswini: A famous long poem by the 19th century Odia poet Gangadhar Meher.

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Dr Hrushikesh Mallick is a reputed Odia poet and writer. He has 13 Poetry collections. His first book in 1987 heralded a new era in Odia poetry. He has received Odisha Sahitya Akademi Award (1988), Sarala Award (2016) and Central Sahitya Akademi Award (2021).He is also an eminent literary critic and fiction writer. He served as President of Odisha Sahitya Akademi (2021-2024). He has been a professor of Odia language and literature from 2012.

Dr.Snehaprava Das, is a noted writer and a translator from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She has five books of poems, three of stories and thirteen collections of translated texts (from Odia to English), to her credit. 

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Editorial

Seasons Out of Time

Today, as I gaze in this autumnal light,
I feel I am viewing life anew.

— Tagore's Aaj Shororter Aloy (Today, in the Autumnal Light)
Autumn Garden by Vincent Van Gogh (1853-1890). From Public Domain

September heralds the start of year-end festivities around the world. It’s autumn in one part and spring in another – both seasons that herald change. While our planet celebrates changes, dichotomies, opposites and inclusively gazes with wonder at the endless universe in all its splendour, do we? Festivals are times of good cheer and fun with our loved ones. And yet, a large part of the world seems to be in disarray with manmade disasters wrought by our own species on its own home planet. Despite the sufferings experienced by victims of climate and war-related calamities, the majority will continue to observe rituals out of habit while subscribing to exclusivity and shun change in any form. Occasionally, there are those who break all rules to create a new norm.

One such group of people are the bauls or mendicants from Bengal. Aruna Chakravarti has shared an essay about these people who have created a syncretic lore with music and nature, defying the borders that divide humanity into exclusive groups. As if to complement this syncretic flow, we have Professor Fakrul Alam’s piece on a human construct, literary clubs spanning different cultures spread over centuries – no less an area in which we find norms redefined for, the literary, often, are the harbingers of change.

Weaving in stories from around the world, our non-fiction section offers parenting tips ( or are these really nerdy meanderings?) from Farouk Gulsara who looks inclusively at all life forms — big and small, including humans. Meredith Stephens brings us a sobering narrative with a light touch from the Southern Hemisphere. Prithvijeet Sinha takes us to explore an ancient monument of Lucknow and Jun A. Alindogan tells us “what’s in a name” in Philippines — it’s quite complex really  — it reads almost as complicated as a Japanese addresses explained in her column by Suzanne Kamata. In this issue, she takes us through the complexities of history in South Carolina, while Devraj Singh Kalsi analyses literary awards with a dollop of irony!

Humour is brought into poetry by Rhys Hughes, though his column houses more serious poems. Joseph C.Obgonna has an interesting take on his hat — if you please. We have poetry on climate by Onkar Sharma. Verses as usual mean variety on our pages. In this issue, we have a poem (an ekphrastic, if we were given to labelling) by Ryan Quinn Flanagan on a painting, by Ron Pickett on aging and on a variety of issues by Arshi, Joseph K Wells, Shamim Akhtar, Stephen House, Mian Ali, John Grey, Jim Murdoch, Juliet F Lalzarzoliani, Jim Bellamy, Soumyadwip Chakraborty, Richard Stimac and Sanzida Alam. We have translations of poetry. Ihlwha Choi has self-translated his poem on a dragonfly from Korean. Snehprava Das has brought to us another Odia poet, Ashwini Mishra. Tagore’s Aaj Shororter Aloy (Today, in the Autumnal Light) has been translated from Bengali. Though the poem starts lightly with the poet bathed in autumnal light, it dwells on ‘eternal truths’ while Nazrul’s Karar Oi Louho Kopat (Those Iron Shackles of Prison), transcreated by Professor Alam, reiterates breaking gates that exclude and highlight differences. In the same spirit as that of the bauls, Nazrul’s works ask for inclusivity as do those of Tagore.

We have more poetry in book excerpts with Sinha’s debut collection of poems, A Verdant Heart, and in reviews with veteran poet Kiriti Sengupta’s Selected Poems, reviewed by academic Pradip Mondal. Rakhi Dalal has written on Mohua Chinappa’s Thorns in my Quilt: Letters from a father to a Daughter. while Bhaskar Parichha has discussed Kalyani Ramnath’s Boats in a Storm: Law, Migration, and Decolonization in South and Southeast Asia, 1942–1962, a book that explores beyond the boundaries that politicians draw for humanity. The pièce de résistance in this section is Somdatta Mandal’s exploration of Aruna Chakravarti’s selected and translated, Rising from the Dust: Dalit Stories from Bengal. The book stands out not just for the translation but also with the selection which showcases an attempt to create bridges that transcend linguistic and cultural barriers.

Mandal, herself, has a brilliant translation featured in this issue. We have a review of her book, an interview with her, and an excerpt from the translation of Jaladhar Sen’s The Travels of a Sadhu in the Himalayas. Written and first published in the Tagore family journal, Bharati, the narrative is an outstanding cultural bridge which even translates Bengali humour for an Anglophone readership. That Sen had a strictly secular perspective in the nineteenth century when blind devotion was often a norm is showcased in Mandal’s translation as well as the stupendous descriptions of the Himalayas that haunt with elegant simplicity. 

Our fiction this month seems largely focussed on women’s stories from around the world. While Fiona Sinclair and Erin Jamieson reflect on mother-daughter relationships, Anandita Dey looks into a woman’s dilemma as she tries to adjust to the accepted norm of an ‘arranged’ marriage. Rashida Murphy explores deep rooted social biases that create issues faced by a woman with a light touch. Naramsetti Umamaheswararao brings in variety with a fable – a story that reflects human traits transcending gender disparity.

The September issue would not have been possible without contributions of words and photographs by many of you. Huge thanks to all of you, to the fabulous team and to Sohana Manzoor, whose art has become synonymous with our journal. And our heartfelt thanks to our wonderful readers, without who the effort of putting together this journal would be pointless. Thank you all.

Looking forward to happier times.

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

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Poetry

Found in Translation: Ashwini Mishra’s poems

Five poems by Ashwini Mishra have been translated from Odia by Snehaprava Das

Ashwini Mishra
RIDING THE EARTH: THE LAST DAY

Farewell!
A final goodbye!
The prologue to an epic of an endless rest
Has to be something
Extra special.

Gathering up all the strength
Of his senses
He strove to know the people
Around him.
He spoke fondly to them
‘Let you all be there in my heart
Forever,
May my world keep shimmering
With the glow of this endearing bond.’
He rode each passing day
That galloped on --
Like a well-fed, robust horse,
He rode on,
His feet securely stuck in the stirrups
His hands gripping the rein hard.
In an instant he could
Gallop around the earth
Cradling time under his arm.
The river, the ponds
And the rainclouds brought water
For his parched throat,

Towards the end of the journey
He called one by one his folks
Whom he held dear to his heart.
Some of them sounded assuring,
Some promised to come.
A few fulfilled their promises too
And came --
Still, there was a disturbing emptiness
Somewhere within.

Where has disappeared
The knot of love that had held
So strong in the days of past?
It was as though that knot
Had loosened and shredded.
Worn out like a weary page
In the mindscape,
Like someone that had once
Played a major role,
And had moved away from the centerstage,
To stand by the stage-wings
Distanced and dispassionate!

SWORD


I had never wanted
To wield a sword, a dagger or a goad.
I had always wanted to tuck plumes
into the hair,
To draw a lotus on the palm,
To play the notes of spring breeze
For the ears of the
Blazing summer noon.
I had wanted to be a dreamer,
To let my eyes close
At the touch of the delicate petals
Of exotic blooms!
But you did not let that happen.
My loved ones,
My folk I held close to my heart,
Fell at the merciless blows
Of harsh and hostile words
Your canons shot.
Your anger, your cruelty,
Weighed heavy on me
And a thunderstorm brew inside me.
Unnoticed by others.
In the end,
My compelled hands
Reached out to the scabbard
Lying abandoned under
The smuts of time
To draw the sword out.

THE CLAY LAMP

A clay lamp can always guess
How long the ghee and
The wick in it will last.
It is a living thing
How brief might its lifespan be.
It can, like all living beings,
Battle the wind and the darkness
In its struggle to survive
In an unenclosed space
That is vulnerable to
The assault of hooves of animals
Or the misty spray of the dew.
It knows that
The moment the curtain rises,
Revealing the stage
All set for the entry of light,
The first act of the play will end
And Its role will be over
Even before the makeup is
Rubbed off the face or the artificial tint
On the hair fades.
The hand that had lit it
May turn impassive, too!

A woman, her heart and hands
Focused on the act,
Keeps lighting up the clay lamps,
Not knowing for sure
How long their light would last
Or when the flames would die.
The idol of the goddess
That glittered in the light of
The lamps she lights
Never steps down to help her
When the flames char her body.
There is not a soul in sight
When her flame dies,
Except a few burnt insects.

GAZA
You neither have a chest
Nor arms now
To embrace those who once saw
You as their own
Like you did before.
The natives and the foreigners,
Who trod your soil,
Now take a turn either to your left
Or to your right and move on.
No longer the chirrups of birds
Come sprinkling down
Either from your sky, or your trees.
There are vultures everywhere
Scavenging on the tender human flesh
Getting fat and heavy.
The sun, the moon and the stars
In your sky are
Blown away into thousand pieces now.
You may dig up some of them
Graved under your ground.
The Death in your sea breeze
And in your explosive garb
Haunts living humans
To turn them to corpses.
Like a farmland ladened with crops,
Skeletons are heaped in your streets.
Houses and buildings where life dwelt
Are mounds of shattered concrete.
Wreckage of kitchenware,
And of home appliances
Lie on the desolate roads
In pathetic scatters.
A book satchel slings from the
Severed hand of a dead child.
The thirst for war is not quelled yet,
New strategies are deliberated upon
To pursue newer missions of death.
New weapons must be hoarded
In the arsenal
To launch an attack on the netherworld
After this world is razed to ruins.

WHIP

The whip that once basked proud in
The love of the kings and the feudal lords
And danced in elation on
The defenseless back of the oppressed,
Now lies worn and weary
In a niche in the royal palace or
Behind the glass doors in the shelf
Of a museum,
Coated in dust and dirt.
The obsequious tanners,
Who were far below the
Aristocracy,
Polished this tool of tyranny
Bright with oil,
And it jumped crazy
On their haggard backs,
Drawing crooked lines
Of livid blue and red.

How wide is the chasm between
Sage Dadhichi who gave his bones
For forging a thunderbolt
To kill demon Brutrasura*,
And the stingray that gave its tail to
Shape a whip
That performs its brutal dance
On the back of innocent humans?
Even today,
The barges of history and legends
Voyage across the pages
Of text books taught in the classroom,
Their sails fluttering
On their proud masts.

*Brutrasura was killed by Indra with a weapon made with Sage Dadhichi’s bones as per mythology.

Aswini Kumar Mishra has 13 poetry collections to his credit. He has been translated widely into English, Hindi, Bengali, Tamil and other Indian languages. He has authored a fiction in English, Feet in the Valley (Rupa Publications, 2016),  His poems and essays have appeared in several literary journals including Indian Literature, Kavya Bharati, Wasafiri, M.P.T, The Little Magazine, Samakaleen, Konark, Rock Pebbles and Vahi etc. A recipient of several awards, he currently lives in Bhubaneswar and can be reached at cell phone +919438615742, +918456953936. His email id is:  mishra.aswini53@gmail.com

Dr.Snehaprava Das, is a noted writer and a translator from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She has five books of poems, three of stories and thirteen collections of translated texts (from Odia to English), to her credit. 

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Contents

Borderless, August 2025

Art by Sohana Manzoor

Editorial

Storms that Rage… Click here to read.

Translations

Nazrul’s Jonomo, Jonomo Gelo (Generations passed) has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read and listen to a rendition by the famed Feroza Begum.

Ajit Cour‘s short story, Nandu, has been translated from Punjabi by C Christine Fair. Click here to read.

The Scarecrow by Anwar Sahib Khan has been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.

Five poems by Aparna Mohanty have been translated from Odia by Snehprava Das. Click here to read.

Angshuman Kar has translated some of his own Bengali poems to English. Click here to read.

Sunflower, a poem by Ihlwha Choi,  has been translated from Korean by the poet himself. Click here to read.

Tagore’s Shaishabshanda (Childhood’s Dusk) has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Click here to read.

Poetry

Click on the names to read the poems

Ron Pickett, Fakrul Alam, William Miller, Meetu Mishra, Heath Brougher, Laila Brahmbhatt, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Snigdha Agrawal, George Freek, Ashok Suri, Scott Thomas Outlar, Dustin P Brown, Rajorshi Patranabis, Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Poets, Poetry & Rhys Hughes

From the Vale of Glamorgan are two poems on the place where Rhys Hughes grew up. Click here to read.

Musings/Slices from Life

Menaced by a Marine Heatwave

Meredith Stephens writes of how global warming is impacting marine life in South Australia. Click here to read.

The Man from Pulwama

Gowher Bhat introduces us to a common man who is just kind. Click here to read.

More than Words

Jun A. Alindogan writes on his penchant for hardcopy mail. Click here to read.

To Bid or Not to Bid… the Final Goodbye?

Ratnottama Sengupta ponders on Assisted Dying. Click here to read.

Musings of a Copywriter

In Syrupy Woes, Devraj Singh Kalsi looks at syrupy health antidotes with a pinch of humour. Click here to read.

Essays

‘Verify You Are Human’

Farouk Gulsara ponders over the ‘intelligence’ of AI and humans. Click here to read.

Does the First Woman-authored Novel in Bengali Seek Reforms?

Meenakshi Malhotra explores Somdatta Mandal’s translation of Manottama, the first woman-authored Bengali novel published in 1868. Click here to read.

Bhaskar’s Corner

In Bidyut Prabha Devi – The First Feminist Odia Poet, Bhaskar Parichha pays a tribute to the poet. Click here to read.

Stories

The Sixth Man

C. J. Anderson-Wu tells a story around disappearances during Taiwan’s White terror. Click here to read.

I Am Not My Mother

Gigi Baldovino Gosnell gives a story of child abuse set in Philippines where the victim towers with resilience. Click here to read.

The Archiver of Shadows

Hema R explores shadows in her story set in Chennai. Click here to read.

Ali the Dervish

Paul Mirabile weaves the strange adventures of a man who called himself Ali. Click here to read.

The Gift

Naramsetti Umamaheswararao moulds children’s perspectives. Click here to read.

Notes from Japan

In American Wife, Suzanne Kamata gives a short story set set in the Obon festival in Japan. Click here to read.

Conversation

Neeman Sobhan, author of Abiding City: Ruminations from Rome, discusses shuttling between multiple cultures and finding her identity in words. Click here to road.

Book Excerpts

An excerpt from M.A.Aldrich’s From Rasa to Lhasa: The Sacred Center of the Mandala. Click here to read.

An excerpt from Neeman Sobhan’s An Abiding City: Ruminations from Rome. Click here to read.

Book Reviews

Somdatta Mandal reviews Chhimi Tenduf-La’s A Hiding to Nothing. Click here to read it.

Madhuri Kankipati reviews O Jungio’s The Kite of Farewells: Stories from Nagaland. Click here to read.

Bhaskar Parichha reviews Snehaprava Das’s Keep it Secret: Stories. Click here to read.

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Categories
Editorial

Storms that Rage

Storm in purple by Arina Tcherem. From Public Domain

If we take a look at our civilisation, there are multiple kinds of storms that threaten to annihilate our way of life and our own existence as we know it. The Earth and the human world face twin threats presented by climate change and wars. While on screen, we watch Gaza and Ukraine being sharded out of life by human-made conflicts over constructs made by our own ‘civilisations’, we also see many of the cities and humankind ravaged by floods, fires, rising sea levels and global warming. Along with that come divides created by economics and technology. Many of these themes reverberate in this month’s issue.

From South Australia, Meredith Stephens writes of marine life dying due to algal growth caused by rising water temperatures in the oceans — impact of global warming. She has even seen a dead dolphin and a variety of fishes swept up on the beach, victims of the toxins that make the ocean unfriendly for current marine life. One wonders how much we will be impacted by such changes! And then there is technology and the chatbot taking over normal human interactions as described by Farouk Gulsara. Is that good for us? If we perhaps stop letting technology take over lives as Gulsara and Jun A. Alindogan have contended, it might help us interact to find indigenous solutions, which could impact the larger framework of our planet. Alindogan has also pointed out the technological divide in Philippines, where some areas get intermittent or no electricity. And that is a truth worldwide — lack of basic resources and this technological divide.

On the affluent side of such divides are moving to a new planet, discussions on immortality — Amortals[1] by Harari’s definition, life and death by euthanasia. Ratnottama Sengupta brings to us a discussion on death by choice — a privilege of the wealthy who pay to die painlessly. The discussion on whether people can afford to live or die by choice lies on the side of the divide where basic needs are not an issue, where homes have not been destroyed by bombs and where starvation is a myth, where climate change is not wrecking villages with cloudbursts.  In Kashmir, we can find a world where many issues exist and violences are a way of life. In the midst of such darkness, a bit of kindness and more human interactions as described by Gower Bhat in ‘The Man from Pulwama’ goes some way in alleviating suffering. Perhaps, we can take a page of the life of such a man. In the middle of all the raging storms, Devraj Singh Kalsi brings in a bit of humour or rather irony with his strange piece on his penchant for syrups, a little island removed from conflicts which seem to rage through this edition though it does raise concerns that affect our well-being.

The focus of our essays pause on women writers too. Meenakshi Malhotra ponders on Manottama (1868), the first woman-authored novel in Bengali translated by Somdatta Mandal whereas Bhaskar Parichha writes on the first feminist Odia poet, Bidyut Prabha Devi.

Parichha has also reviewed a book by another contemporary Odia woman author, Snehaprava Das. The collection of short stories is called Keep it Secret. Madhuri Kankipati has discussed O Jungio’s The Kite of Farewells: Stories from Nagaland and Somdatta Mandal has written about Chhimi Tenduf-La’s A Hiding to Nothing, a novel by a global Tibetan living in Sri Lanka with the narrative between various countries. We have an interview with a global nomad too, Neeman Sobhan, who finds words help her override borders. In her musing on Ostia Antica, a historic seaside outside Rome, Sobhan mentions how the town was abandoned because of the onset of anopheles mosquitos. Will our cities also get impacted in similar ways because of the onset of global ravages induced by climate change? This musing can be found as a book excerpt from Abiding City: Ruminations from Rome, her book on her life as a global nomad. The other book excerpt is by a well-known writer who has also lived far from where he was born, MA Aldrich. His book, From Rasa to Lhasa: The Sacred Center of the Mandala is said to be “A sweeping, magnificent biography—which combines historical research, travel-writing and discussion of religion and everyday culture—Old Lhasa is the most comprehensive account of the fabled city ever written in English.”

With that, we come to our fiction section. This time we truly have stories from around the globe with Suzanne Kamata sending a story set in the Bon festival that’s being celebrated in Japan this week for her column. From there, we move to Taiwan with C. J. Anderson-Wu’s narrative reflecting disappearances during the White Terror (1947-1987), a frightening period for people stretched across almost four decades.  Gigi Gosnell writes of the horrific abuse faced by a young Filipino girl as the mother works as a domestic helper in Dubai. Paul Mirabile gives us a cross-cultural narrative about a British who opts to become a dervish. While Hema R touches on women’s issues from within India, Sahitya Akademi Award Winner, Naramsetti Umamaheshwararao, writes a story about children.

We have a powerful Punjabi story by Ajit Cour translated by C.Christine Fair. Our translations host two contemporary poets who have rendered their own poems to English: Angshuman Kar, from Bengali and Ihlwha Choi, from Korean. Snehaprava Das has brought to us poetry from Odia by Aparna Mohanty. Fazal Baloch has translated ‘The Scarecrow’, a powerful Balochi poem by Anwar Sahib Khan. While Tagore’s Shaishabshandha (Childhood’s Dusk) has been rendered to English, Nazrul’s song questing for hope across ages has been brought to us by Professor Fakrul Alam.

Professor Alam has surprised us with his own poem too this time. In August’s poetry selection, Ron Pickett again addresses issues around climate change as does Meetu Mishra about rising temperatures. We have variety and colour brought in by George Freek, Heath Brougher, Laila Brahmbhatt, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Snigdha Agrawal, William Miller, Ashok Suri, Scott Thomas Outlar, Dustin P Brown, and Ryan Quinn Flanagan. Rajorshi Patranabis weaves Wiccan lore of light and dark, death and life into his delicately poised poetry. Rhys Hughes has also dwelt on life and death in this issue. He has shared poems on Wales, where he grew up— beautiful gentle lines.

 In spring warm rain will crack
the seeds of life: tangled
roots will grow free again.

('Tinkinswood Burial Chamber' by Rhys Hughes)

With such hope growing out of a neolithic burial chamber, maybe there is hope for life to survive despite all the bleakness we see around us. Maybe, with a touch of magic and a sprinkle of realism – our sense of hope, faith and our ability to adapt to changes, we will survive for yet another millennia.

We wind up our content for the August issue with the eternal bait for our species — hope. Huge thanks to the fantastic team at Borderless and to all our wonderful writers. Truly grateful to Sohana Manzoor for her artwork and many thanks to all our wonderful readers for their time…

We wish you all a wonderful reading experience!

Gratefully,

Mitali Chakravarty.

borderlessjournal.com

[1] Homo Deus: A Brief History of Tomorrow (2015) by Yuval Noah Harari

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Review

Tales of Secrets and Darkness

Book Review by Bhaskar Pariccha

Title: Keep It Secret

Author: Snehaprava Das

Publisher: Black Eagle Books

Snehaprava Das, a former Associate Professor of English, is a noted poet and translator. She has translated many Odia works into English and published five poetry collections. Her translations have received several awards, including the Prabashi Bhasha Sahitya Sammana, the Jibanananda Das Award, and the Fakir Mohan Anubad Sammana.

Keep It Secret is a collection of ten short stories. The relatively lengthy narratives are equally grounded in reality and fantasy. In the author’s view, these narratives strive to traverse the delicate, ephemeral boundary that exists between reality and illusion. They delve into the inner jungle to uncover the secrets that are meticulously hidden behind a facade of pretense and the artifice of a pleasing and socially acceptable exterior.

Engaging with her stories provides a rewarding experience. These tales encompass a diverse array of themes, including life and death, the supernatural, the real and the surreal, peculiar coincidences, and the intricacies of human relationships.

 In the Preface, Das provides a rationale for her stories, which contributes to their uniqueness. Citing Regina Pally, a distinguished psychiatrist and therapist based in Los Angeles, Das states, “Most of what we perceive occurs non-consciously and effortlessly, and according to her, this process can be described as a ‘survival instinct’.” This may lead the guilt-ridden mind to interpret and shape a future aimed at compensating for past wrongs. This ‘survival instinct,’ which entices individuals to assume and perceive various things, can even distort the true impact of actual events, creating multiple and bizarre interpretations of a single incident that may approach the surreal.

She bases her stories on the presumption made by Freudian scholars: “From error to error, one discovers the entire truth, observes Freud. Some of the stories aim at exposing the errors man is forced to commit, lured by compulsive emotions, which leave life irrecoverably difficult, and could at times prove fatal in that self-destructive process of discovering the truth. Some stories attempt to study the complex and shifting patterns of human relationships that hang precariously balanced between trust and distrust, and to observe the reaction of the characters while confronting the secret of that relationship, which was kept closely guarded till the end. The experience of that confrontation could be subversive in that specific moment of anagnorisis.”[1]

Some stories may not always offer a seemingly logical, definable, or happy ending.

Das’s short stories possess a cerebral quality, posing a challenge for discerning readers to fully appreciate her offerings.

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[1] ‘The other Freud: Rethinking the philosophical roots of psychoanalysis’ by Parker & Donald Lewis

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Bhaskar Parichha is a journalist and author of Cyclones in Odisha: Landfall, Wreckage and ResilienceUnbiasedNo Strings Attached: Writings on Odisha and Biju Patnaik – A Political Biography. He lives in Bhubaneswar and writes bilingually. Besides writing for newspapers, he also reviews books on various media platforms.

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Bhaskar's Corner Tribute

Bidyut Prabha Devi – The First Feminist Odia Poet

By Bhaskar Parichha

Bidyut Prabha Devi

Bidyut Prabha Devi (1926 – 1977) is celebrated as one of the most prominent female poets in Odia literature. Hailing from Natara village in the Kendrapara district, she was the second daughter of the esteemed writer, Nimai Charan Das, and Rekha Devi.

Raised in a traditional family in Bamphisahi, Cuttack, she received most of her education independently, attending Ravenshaw Girls’ School until the ninth grade. Inspired by her father and notable Odia poets like Nanda Kishore Bal and Kunja Bihari Das, she began her journey into poetry in 1940.

Her first collection, released in 1944 when she was merely 18 years old, featured patriotic poems that celebrated the cultural and natural heritage of Odisha. It highlighted her early ability to create vivid imagery and convey emotional depth, drawing from her rural background and the literary traditions of Odia.

Her 1950 collection, Utkal Saraswata[1], was recognised as a significant contribution to education, being included as a poetry textbook at Utkal University. In addition to poetry, she also wrote for children, for which she was awarded by the Government of India in 1955, acknowledging her impactful contributions to children’s literature.

Bidyut Prabha’s poetry explores the challenges faced by women, societal limitations, and the theme of empowerment, weaving together both personal and universal experiences. It embodies her feminist viewpoint, tackling matters such as gender inequality within a conservative framework, all while preserving a lyrical and approachable style.

She authored numerous plays, although specific titles are not extensively recorded. Her theatrical pieces frequently conveyed social messages, resonating with her socialist and feminist principles. Her writings were recognized for their clarity and moral depth, rendering literature accessible to younger audiences. Some of these later works are less documented but showcase her reflective and philosophical nature.

Influenced by socialist principles, her poetry examined social disparities and advocated for the marginalised. Her self-taught approach was characterised by clear and evocative language, rendering her work both relatable and profound.

Bidyut Prabha’s writings were revolutionary for their era, especially in their focus on women’s issues within Odia literature. Her son, Sachidananda Mohanty, a distinguished educationist and litterateur, has translated her works, thereby preserving her legacy.

Writes Sachidananda Mohanty[2]: “In recent decades, feminist historiography in eastern India has paid welcome attention to issues of education, creativity, and sisterhood across linguistic barriers. It has recognised women’s pivotal role in shaping the public space at the intersection between feminist history and literary creativity. Scholars like Judith Walsh, Tanika Sarkar, Malavika Karlekar, and others have brought to our attention forgotten life-narratives of literary women of the region who have created a tradition of their own.  Bidyut Prabha Devi, recognised as a major female voice in pre-modern Odia poetry, belongs to a poetic tradition represented by an illustrious sisterhood, comprising Reba Ray, Kuntala Kumari Sabat, Haripriya Devi, Debahuti Devi, Nirmala Devi, Tulasi Das, and Brahmotri Mohanty, among others. 

“While Bidyut Prabha may be known in Odisha, her feminist poems, based on her deep understanding of domesticity and patriarchy, have not been sufficiently read outside the state. Even in Odisha, her ‘romantic poems’ are widely anthologised at the cost of the more powerful compositions that address the woman’s position and identity in terms of the entrenched power structures in society.”

According to Mohanty, Bidyut Prabha’s feminist poetry stands out distinctly from the prevalent ‘Advice-for-Women’ genre in the region. She bases her work on her own life experiences and resonates with the growing feminist consciousness in Odisha, which is championed by literary feminists and social reformers like Sarala Devi[3], who played a pivotal role as a mentor to Bidyut Prabha. This journey was marked by its transnational influences. Sarala Devi had a strong connection with poet Annada Shankar Ray, a key figure in the Odia Romantic movement.

Her impact on Odia literature is significant, particularly as one of the earliest notable female poets in a predominantly male literary environment. Her contributions are rooted in her capacity to merge lyrical elegance with social critique, enhancing the inclusivity, reflection, and cultural relevance of Odia literature. Her work continues to serve as a foundational element for feminist and regional narratives in Odisha.

She was married to Panchanan Mohanty. Following health challenges in 1966, her literary output took on a spiritual dimension, shaped by her connection to the Sri Aurobindo Ashram, Pondicherry. Unfortunately, she took her own life.

Bidyut Prabha Devi’s poetry, deeply rooted in feminist and socialist ideals, continues to motivate and inspire, with her centenary of birth being commemorated in 2025 as a representation of women’s empowerment in Odisha.

[1] Odia Literature

[2] A literary sisterhood, Vol. 65, No. 6 (326) (November-December 2021), Published By: Sahitya Akademi

[3] Sarala Devi (1904-1986) – Odisha’s first Satyagrahi, first female legislator and first feminist writer.

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Bhaskar Parichha is a journalist and author of Cyclones in Odisha: Landfall, Wreckage and ResilienceUnbiasedNo Strings Attached: Writings on Odisha and Biju Patnaik – A Political Biography. He lives in Bhubaneswar and writes bilingually. Besides writing for newspapers, he also reviews books on various media platforms.

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